


while you follow the moon

by strawberryswinging



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-04 12:32:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryswinging/pseuds/strawberryswinging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a euro trip fic. in which louis and zayn encounter harry, liam and niall.</p><p>title from "the mountain and the sea" by ingrid michaelson.</p><p>plz don't hate me for not being done yet</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> all of this is fiction but i wish it wasn't

END OF MAY - L

“I’ve done it.”

Louis whips his head up from his desk so quickly he’s pretty sure he’s got whiplash now. This injury will last at least a week. He will hardly be able to turn his head. His hairstyle will suffer. 

“ZAYN!” he shouts. “I’ve done it!” 

Louis is sure he hasn’t been this excited since Christopher Maloney was finally booted off the X Factor. He nearly cried then, so this is a close second.

He runs out of his room (stumbles, really, over piles of uni books he dropped arguably too much money on and would like to light on fire to keep himself warm in the winter) and slides gracefully into the kitchen, placing his chin in his hands as he reaches the countertop. 

He faces Zayn, who is sat with one leg up, knee tucked under his chin, at the kitchen table. 

“I know you said a million times I couldn’t do it," Louis starts excitedly, "But this time I’ve most certainly done it.”

Zayn briefly looks up from his notebook through his thick-rimmed glasses, and then back down at his notebook again. “I’m not quite sure what it is you’re talking about,” he starts slowly, “but unless you mean you’ve finally cleaned your side of the bathroom, then I highly doubt you’ve done it. Whatever it is.” 

Louis huffs a small breath of annoyance, but his smile remains. “How could you doubt me? I’ve been at it for at least twenty minutes. I only last that long when I’m – ow, you twat!” he squeals. Louis isn’t even allowed to finish his sentence before Zayn is chucking his pencil at his face. 

“I don’t want to hear that,” Zayn says. “You are distracting me from my very important coursework.” He frowns as he realizes that his statement has made zero impact on the shit-eating grin on Louis’s face, so he takes a different approach. “That being said, I know I’m not the only one with a midterm next week. Why aren’t you studying? Or is that what you’ve so miraculously ‘done’? Finally decoded A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

“Zayn, darling, I practically wrote A Midsummer Night’s Dream." Louis’s tone takes a turn for the dramatic. "I am Shakespeare reincarnated. I am god of sonnets. And perfecting the skills required for that job definitely took me longer than twenty minutes.”

Zayn rolls his eyes as he runs his finger aimlessly down the lines of his notebook, and Louis observes that he has only written in two or three of those lines. 

“Well. Whatever it is, judging by the amount of work I’ve finished since you left the kitchen last, I’m going to call your bluff and say you have accomplished even less than I have.”

Louis feels a smile creep onto his face. “Ah. You’re quite wrong there.” He tiptoes over to the table. 

Would we call it a table, really? It’s more of a coffee table, an end table, only large enough for the two of them to fit a few containers of their favorite Thai takeaway and maybe a pot of tea. At this moment, the edges of Zayn’s notebook teeter off, and the note cards he has stuffed between the tops of the pages threaten to cascade to the floor.

Louis places his arms around Zayn’s neck from behind and debates asking him when he last attempted to scrub the smoke smell out of his luscious hair, but he decides the comment could fatally alter the grandeur of the magical thing he has just managed to accomplish.

He clears his throat dramatically. “I have planned our trip across Europe!”

Zayn’s head drops to the table with a thud. “Louis. No. Not again.”

Louis scampers back to his room and retrieves the map of Europe he tore from an old geography textbook that wasn’t really used for much more than a place for him to set his tea upon in college where he was forced to take bullshit classes like geography. The map is stained from the rings his tea mug left and is a bit crinkly, but Louis doesn’t mind. It’s perfect. His circle is perfect. His circle of travel and adventure is perfect.

“Look at this! It’s a brilliant plan. I don’t know why it took me so long to figure it out. Europe is practically a circle. I am practically a cartographer. I will have to quit my job as Shakespeare. It will be tragic. I will write my final sonnet on the tragedy.”

Zayn rolls his eyes for what feels like the tenth time since this conversation began.

“However, this hardly requires the adjective ‘tragic’. This, rather, is miraculous! I have finally planned our trip and oh Zayn, look at it!”

Louis has taken a red Sharpie and drawn… a circle. Sort of. There are big red dots on Amsterdam, Berlin, Munich, Rome, Cinque Terre, the French Riviera, Ibiza, and Paris, the places he’s always dreamed about, all connected by a kindergartener’s interpretation of a circle. Louis is very proud.

“Louis,” starts Zayn, “I’ve told you a million times, we can’t just up and do this. I mean, I want to, but I want a lot of things. It takes months to plan these things. Also money. We haven’t got any of that.”

“Isn’t that the point though? To just up and do it? I want to up and do it. I want you to up and appreciate my red circle of magic. We are going. You are going. I am going. We are leaving on the first of August. And we are taking the ferry to Amsterdam.”

Zayn’s head falls back to the table with a smack, and Louis swears he hears Zayn murmuring the beginning of his plot to murder him, but he’s sure he’s just imagining it. 

Because no one needs this more than Zayn. And no one needs this more than Louis needs Zayn to need it.

***

When Louis says the ferry, he actually means the ferry.

“It’s very simple, Zayn,” says Louis matter-of-factly. “The ferry leaves from Hull at 12:00 PM, and lands promptly in Rotterdam, and then we can just take the train to Amsterdam. Why fly when you can ferry?”

“Have you ever considered how long this will take? Anything that requires travel by boat must take at least, like, four days. Do you know how long it took Columbus to get to America? Ages, I assume.”

Louis pulls up the website again. “The ferry from Hull to Rotterdam is approximately four hours, and the train from Rotterdam to Amsterdam is approximately thirty minutes. We’re doing it.”

“And I suspect you’ve already bought tickets. With my credit card.”

“Well, how else was I supposed to do it?” Louis says. “You know I haven’t deposited my last paycheck yet.”

“Louis, you haven’t received a paycheck yet this month.”

“It was only 200 quid for the both of us. And once we get to Amsterdam we can just buy EurRail passes. They let us take the train anywhere, anytime.”

Zayn looks at him in disbelief. “Have you actually done research?” He cups a hand over his mouth like it’s the most surprising thing he’s ever heard.

Louis nods once, curtly. “I have.”

Zayn is rather impressed that Louis has done the research necessary, booked tickets at a reasonable hour, and has also managed to find a hostel that doesn’t look like they’ll be hung and quartered there. Yes, he is impressed by Louis’s dedication. Louis is usually this dedicated to things like how tea should be properly made or how tall the castle of takeaway containers in the bin can become. Dedication to activities is definitely a strong streak of Louis’s. Where there’s a will in Louis, there’s a way.

And so that’s it, then. The months pass slowly, as Zayn spends all of June and July working on campus at their uni doing administrative work and Louis works in a small coffee shop, where business is slower than usual without lots of students around, and he spends most of his time looking wistfully out the window and dreaming of what’s going to happen on his trip. It’s all very cliché.

August quickly approaches, and while Louis certainly appreciates the sillier things in life, when it comes to his dream Euro trip, he means business. He’s booked hostels in all the cities he marked on the map, bought himself and Zayn EurRail passes, and has managed to even look up train times for when they are moving between cities.

Truth be told, it’s all rather fluid and mostly for show. He’s hoping they’ll get off track a few times, maybe not make it to a few cities and end up somewhere else fantastic. He wants Zayn to live a little, and he wants to do this the crazy way. But he also doesn’t want to give his mum a heart attack. So he makes a plan and plans not to stick to it.


	2. Chapter 2

They pack one suitcase each, Louis’s admittedly more full than Zayn’s. (Choices, he argues.) Louis’s mum makes them double check everything, triple check, just to be sure. They arrive with about five minutes to spare, as the time on Louis’s watch reads 11:54. His mum kisses both boys on the cheek, slips Louis a one hundred Euro bill (“Just in case, darling.”) and as Louis watches her car pull away from the ferry dock he can’t help it when his stomach flips a few times; despite Zayn’s presence, he’s actually feeling a bit on his own. 

“Well,” Louis says with a smile on his face that he hopes makes him look much more at ease than he actually really is, “Off we go, Zayner!” 

As they drag their suitcases on board, a pleasant looking woman hands them each a small fluorescent pink ticket and informs them that they can trade the tickets for their suitcases when the ferry docks in Rotterdam. She guides them to the deck below, and the boys take two seats next to each other, Louis choosing the seat next to the window.

Louis is frustrated to discover the glass isn’t quite clear enough to see through, and it’s trickled with rain streaks as well. He might have forgotten to tell Zayn that his motion sickness tends to act up if he can’t focus on something outside of the moving vehicle. He groans with anticipation.

Zayn seems quite oblivious to the fact that Louis is already uncomfortable. He’s got his headphones in, tapping his feet to some song by The Weeknd, and is aimlessly watching the other passengers shuffle around and take their seats. Louis feels woozy and the ferry hasn’t even left yet. He leans his head back onto his headrest (really, plastic? Louis cringes.) and closes his eyes, hoping maybe if he falls asleep his nerves will calm down. Get a grip, Tomlinson.

The boat shifts suddenly, moving backward. Not even ten minutes later, Louis wishes nothing more than that he hadn’t had an extra bowl of cereal this morning, because it’s threatening to resurface at any minute. He feels sweat beading on his forehead, more sweat dampening his armpits, and stars blur his vision.

“Fuck, Zayn,” he whimpers, “Can I get past you?” 

Louis climbs over Zayn’s legs before Zayn can even react and he darts for the loo, whipping the door open and collapsing to the floor. He throws up his breakfast in the toilet, dry heaving till there’s nothing left and he feels proper disgusting. His head hasn’t stopped spinning and he’s soaked with sweat. 

Louis sits on the bathroom floor, head on his knees, refusing to move even though a few people knock on the door.

“Lou?” Zayn is tapping on the door lightly. “You alright in there, mate? It’s been like, forty-five minutes. There’s a line out here.”

“Yeah,” Louis croaks out. “Don’t worry, ‘m fine, be out in a sec.”

Zayn tries pulling the door open, and Louis is glad he locked it. He is a mess and he doesn’t want anyone, not even Zayn, to see him in his state.

“Louis, let me in,” says Zayn. “I know you’re ill.” 

Ah, yes. Zayn has been his best mate since he was five. He must’ve put the pieces together every time Louis refused to get on a roller coaster, or the fact that Louis of all people actually obeyed the speed limit on the highway. 

“Come on,” tries Zayn again. “I’ve got a water bottle for you.”

Louis quickly grabs a handful of paper towels, wipes the sweat off his forehead, and attempts to clean up whatever mess he made in the tiny space. He doesn’t bother to look in the mirror; he’s sure he’s white as a ghost.

“Christ, Lou,” Zayn says as Louis slowly opens the door and steps out. “You’re a wreck. Come on, come sit down. The bloke behind me had some seasickness pills.” He holds out his hand, and Louis gratefully takes the two small pills and downs them with the water Zayn brought.

“I’m sorry,” Louis murmurs. Zayn holds him up around the waist, guiding him back to his seat. “Don’t be silly,” he replies. He pushes Louis’s fringe back a bit and pulls the hood of his hoodie up as Louis leans against the window. “Try to sleep, ok, love? We should be there in about 2 hours. Those pills’ll kick in about 20 minutes from now.”

“Doubt I have anything left to vomit up anyway,” replies Louis. “Thank you, though. ‘M sorry again.”

“Louis,” Zayn says, exasperated. “You don’t need to be sorry for being seasick.”

Louis smiles, eyes closed. “I know. It’s not that.”

“You just like being in control,” Zayn says, and Louis nods. It’s true. When he’s off, when he’s not in control, his balance is gone. And getting seasick on a ferry headed toward the biggest adventure of his life definitely qualifies for a spot in this category.

Louis’s head is still spinning as he drifts off to sleep, a crick in his neck surely forming from the uncomfortable position of his head against the window. When he wakes up hours later, it’s to the loud crack of thunder as the ferry slides slowly into the landing dock. It’s not raining yet, but judging by that sound and by the look of the dark clouds through the translucent window, it won’t be long until it starts.

“C’mon, Lou,” Zayn nudges his shoulder gently. “We’re here. Do you have your luggage ticket?”

Louis reaches in his pocket for the little pink ticket, hands it to Zayn, and stands up. Yes, definitely a crick in his neck. He stretches his arms above his head, stifling a yawn.

They collect their bags, go through a bit of security, and once they’re all clear, Louis still feels a bit off but his stomach definitely isn’t turning anymore and he is thankful for that.

“Is that the train station just up there?” Zayn points to a few buildings about a hundred yards away where large groups of people are moving toward. “Yeah,” Louis confirms. “At least the map says so.” 

The sky cracks open just as they reach the Rotterdam train station, and both Louis and Zayn are nearly out of breath. Louis pulls his mobile out of his pocket, hoping to send a quick text to his mum informing her of their arrival in Rotterdam, but finds that he has no service. Probably due to the storm, he thinks, and pockets his mobile just as he hears Zayn mutter, “Shit.”

“What?” Louis turns around and follows Zayn’s eyes to the arrivals and departures board.

“Oh fuck,” Louis agrees. According to the board, the next train to Amsterdam leaves at 8:57 PM. Louis glances at his watch. Barely 4:30 PM. 

“Well, come on then,” Zayn sighs, and begins pulling his suitcase toward a small coffee shop located inside the station. “We’re just going to have to wait.”

They sit down at a table that leans a little bit to the left and Zayn walks up to the counter and orders two lattes. “Thanks,” Louis says as Zayn places the coffee in front of him.

“Don’t mention it,” Zayn replies. “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I am,” says Louis. “Nothing in my stomach anymore to upset it, so.”

They busy themselves for the next few hours making up stories about people passing by, about where they’re going and what (or maybe who) they’ve left behind. Louis hasn’t left all that much behind, when he actually thinks about it. His mum and his sisters, yeah, but he already left them for uni two years ago.

He wonders if they’d miss him if he just disappeared and traveled through Europe forever, living off money he’d make playing guitar in the streets and picking up shifts in coffee shops wherever he and Zayn ended up. No one makes a cappuccino quite like Louis; he could get work if he needed to. He hasn’t got a boyfriend or even a fuck buddy to miss, just Zayn, and their friendship is solidly that – just a friendship. Zayn’s with him here anyway, so yeah, he thinks. He’s not really sure what they’re getting into, but it’s definitely going to be better than anything they’ve left behind.

This is good for Zayn, too, Louis decides just as a lovesick couple sits down at the table next to them. Zayn eyes them, watching as the girl lifts the spoon out of her frothy drink and feeds it to her boyfriend, who licks it greedily. He scowls. 

Louis can tell that Zayn’s is trying not to think about Perrie, trying not to think about their final screaming match that resulted in her storming out of their flat at 4 AM barely six months ago. 

Louis remembers waking up to the sound of obscenities flying across the room, to the sound of Zayn punching a hole in the wall in their kitchen, cursing some other guy’s existence as he did it. And as Louis wrapped Zayn’s bleeding hand in a bandage, he tried not to notice the hot tears rolling down Zayn’s face, pretends he doesn't hear Zayn muttering about how on earth Perrie could ever fuck some other guy, how could she do that, what the fuck. He pretends not to hear because he knows Zayn tries to hide all of this, even from Louis. Zayn, his tough best friend, solid in every way, falling apart. It tore Louis apart to see him hurt, to see him broken.

But Zayn’s broken heart, initially what held him back from going on their trip, was eventually what propelled him into it. After a few long conversations with Louis that lasted till 4 AM, Zayn realized that sitting in their apartment with the hole in the wall in plain sight every fucking day probably wasn’t doing him any good. He needed fresh air, a new perspective, Louis had said. And although Zayn didn’t really believe that a few weeks abroad could really fill the hole in his heart that matched the one in the wall, at this point Zayn reckons he’d try anything.

***

H

“Are you sure you’ve got everything you need?” says Harry’s mum, sounding overly concerned.

Harry hikes his backpack up a little and switches his phone to his other hand. “Yeah Mum, I think I’m good.”

“Passport?”

“Yep.”

“Lock for your things in youth hostels?”

“Yep, Gemma sent me one.” He knows he sounds hurried, but he can see Liam and Niall saying their goodbyes to Niall’s parents up ahead by the line for security.

“Toothbrush?” Anne asks, and Harry thinks she actually sounds a little tearful.

“Mum,” he says in a softer tone, “I’m gonna be fine. It’s only a month and I’m gonna be with Liam and Niall. I promise we won’t be getting up to anything too dangerous. Just sightseeing and clubs and stuff. You don’t have to worry about me, okay?”

“Okay, sweetheart,” and yep, she’s definitely tearing up. “Just send me an SMS or email if you need me to wire you some money okay? I know I said you had to save up for this yourself, but I don’t want you going without.”

“Thanks, Mum,” he says as he starts to make his way over to Liam and Niall. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Be careful.”

Liam’s seen him now and he’s waving excitedly as Harry says, “Mum, I’m gonna go now, okay? I’ve got to say goodbye to Niall’s parents before the flight.”

“Okay. Give them my best! Have a safe flight and please - ”

He cuts her off. He immediately feels guilty. “Okay, Mum! Love you! Talk to you soon.”

“I’ll miss you!"

“Miss you already, Mum. Bye!” He hangs up the phone and catches up with Niall and Liam.

Their goodbyes are less teary than Anne’s had been over the phone. Niall’s parents bid them safe travels, give them each one last hug and make for the door. Once the three boys are alone, Niall wiggles his way between Harry and Liam and throws his arms around their shoulders as best he can between their huge backpacks and pulls them in.

“And so it begins,” he says with what Harry can really only describe as a truly shit-eating grin.

Any reservations Harry had about this trip in the past two months begin to fade away at that. Niall’s sheer enthusiasm had gotten him into this in the first place and it felt promising now.

Niall and Liam had been drunk at an exams-are-done-let’s-get-wasted party in their apartment when they’d invited Harry along with them on their summer tour of the continent. At the time it had seemed like a great idea. Harry had always envisioned himself going on a long tour of Europe, seeing the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Eiffel Tower, and all the other tall monument things he pictured dotting Europe’s landscape.

“If you don’t do it when you’re young you’ll never do it at all, Harry,” Liam had told him quite seriously in his sloppy state.

“I’m not taking no for an answer!” Niall had said, exuberant as always, and the next day when Harry tried to get out of the drunken promises, Niall had made good on that. He’d hoped his family would give him an out, but when he told them about the idea Anne and Gemma had been all too excited for him.

And so he found himself working two jobs for the first half at the summer - continuing his normal maintenance of the local radio station near their university in Manchester and picking up shifts again at the bakery he’d worked at in college - to fund his train pass, food and hostels, clubs and drinks for the trip. Niall and Liam had planned to go in August precisely so they could save up beforehand.

“Our flight boards in thirty minutes so let’s go through security now, yeah?” Liam asked, nudging Niall, and, by extension of Niall’s arms, Harry towards the line. There were almost no people in line, but Liam, as responsible as ever, clearly didn’t want to leave it to the last minute.

Harry’s main issue with the trip had in fact been that it was Niall and Liam’s plan he was joining in on. Niall and Harry had gotten on from the minute they’d met in the radio station their first year at uni and became fast friends, but no matter how many times Harry hung out with Niall’s best friend Liam, they had never managed to click. Niall never made him feel like he was intruding - Niall was such easy friends with everyone - but Liam just had this placid nature that Harry found a little discomfiting. He didn’t get how someone could be so pleasant all the damn time. He’d never seen Liam angry, and though Harry knew he got sad sometimes, (his girlfriend Danielle had broken up with him just days before the party in their flat where they’d convinced Harry to go on the trip with them) the boy just never seemed to show it. For someone like Harry who showed his emotions like tattoos stenciled all over his body, Liam's constant pleasantness was just unfathomable.

But it was easy to forget all of those doubts today. The sky was a clear, bright blue outside the huge windows of the Manchester airport and Niall’s smile was infectious.

‘About to take off to Amsterdam! X’ Harry types out a quick text to Gemma once they were sat at their gate.

Her response came quickly. ‘don’t go getting kidnapped alright? mum and i would miss you round the holidays and such xx’

Harry chuckles as he shoots back, ‘i’ll miss you too. see you in september!! Xx’

He lets out a small sigh of relief. Harry was quite proud of himself, truth be told. This was a big deal. He wanted it to all be a big deal. A Euro trip! It’s definitely a big deal.

Harry absentmindedly taps his fingers on his knees, looks over his shoulder at the screen with their departure time blinking on it a few times, and plays with the zipper on his backpack before turning to Niall.

“So,” he starts, breaking the somewhat awkward silence, “what’s the first thing we’re gonna do in Amsterdam? We only have two days, so I thought maybe we could –”

“Weed.” A smile spreads slowly across Niall’s face. “Weed, man. You know they put it in brownies?”

Ah. Yes, Harry was afraid of that answer. Typical Niall. Not more afraid of the answer, it seems, than Liam.

“Absolutely not. We talked about this. I am NOT doing weed. We’ll be arrested immediately.”

“Liam, you don’t DO weed. You sound like my mother.”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to eat it either.”

Harry chuckles softly. “Liam, it’s okay. You know it’s legal in Amsterdam, right?”

Liam looks absolutely petrified at this realization. Niall’s life may have just flashed before his eyes. “Oh. So without legitimate force, I won’t be able to stop him, will I?”

“No, mate, ‘fraid not.” Liam leans his head back onto the wall and rubs his eyes.

“Liam, you gotta live, man.” Niall still looks so excited. Who could be that excited about weed? Right. Niall could be.

“We’ll see how much living you’re doing when you’re so high you think you’re riding a unicorn through the streets. I will take pictures and post them all over the internet. Of everything you do whilst under the influence of weed.”

“Go ahead. I don’t care. It would be the first rebellious you’ve done since you pushed Caroline into the pool last summer. And she loved it. That’s how un-rebellious you are.”

Harry is genuinely surprised that Niall remembers something as boring as that being the most rebellious thing Liam has ever done.

Liam sighs, accepting the fact that weed in Amsterdam is probably just something he is going to have to accept. “Fine. Do what you want. I will sit and laugh. But I’m still not shooting weed in my veins. You cannot influence me.” A small smile forms on his face, one he evidently isn’t aware of.

Niall returns his smile. “We’ll see about that, Payne. Corruption awaits you.”

With that statement, the attendant at the desk announces that their flight has begun to board. Niall bounds out of his seat, shortly followed by Harry and Liam. As Niall hands the flight attendant his passport and boarding pass, Harry feels Liam tap his shoulder.

“Harry – look, mate, I’m not that lame, I promise! I just worry about Niall. I know he’s chill, he’s just a bit – ”

“I know, Liam. No worries. It’ll be fun, yeah?” Harry offers him a smile.

For the first time since they arrived at the gate, Liam seems to relax.

“Yeah,” he replies. “I suppose could use a bit of fun.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> none of this is real but i wish it was

L

After finally arriving at the central Amsterdam train station late that evening, Louis and Zayn are delighted to find that nearly everyone in Holland speaks English.

“Our first bit of luck,” Louis says wearily. They manage to get their hands on a map of the inner city’s tram route two day ticket passes, and an elderly gentleman kindly draws directions to the street their hostel is located on in blue pen. Street names on a tram map! Louis thinks this is absolutely brilliant. London’s tube map is hardly so detailed.

They thank him profusely and board the train, hoping it will take them to – no, Louis’s eyes do not deceive him; this hostel is called Hostel Amigo.

“A-mee-go. Spanish. Do you speak any Spanish?” Louis is very, very tired, but he can never let silence take over where conversation should be. He knows Zayn does not speak Spanish. Zayn smiles at Louis's attempts to lighten the mood that is the result of their tumultuous journey thus far.

“Baxter, you know I don’t speak Spanish!” replies Zayn in a mock American accent, quoting Anchorman. Louis smiles as he rests his head on Zayn’s shoulder to sneak in a bit of sleep, but he is immediately jolted as the tram begins to move.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been above ground in a tram for this long before,” Zayn comments after a few minutes. Rain sprinkles the windows. The woman in the central station who sold them their tram passes warned them about rain. Clearly she did not know anything about England.

It feels like hours, but their hostel is surprisingly close to the central station. When they reach the stop circled by the man with the blue pen, Louis is stunned that this tram has seemed to stop in the middle of the street. He hadn't even noticed that the tram had been cruising alongside the street that actual cars are driving on. He finds it quite strange.

It's very dark, and only the light of a small corner bakery a few yards away serves to guide their path. The rain has turned into a downpour now, and as Louis and Zayn haul their suitcases off the tram, it whirls away and splashes them as if to say, “You weren’t wet enough already. Here, have some more.”

“I have no idea where to even begin.” They find a bit of shelter at a bus stop across the street – a thin plastic cover hangs over a bench, and Louis takes the map out of his rucksack and attempts to decipher it further.

“Okay. This stop is Pretoriousstraat, and according to that guy’s directions, El Hostel Amigo is on this same street. That way.” Louis points to the left. All he can see is what appear to be tall apartment buildings lining the way until the street curves off to the right.

“Being a hobo has never seemed so appealing. I could fall asleep right on this bench and I’d be dry.”

“Come now, Zayner, the adventures of El Hostel Amigo await us!” Louis stands up and shakes himself like a wet dog.

“Pretty sure there’s no ‘el’ in the name, Louis.”

“It’s Spanish,” Louis protests. “It requires an ‘el.’”

As they make their way down the street, they manage to find fleeting relief from the rain under a few windowsills that hang down on the buildings.

“Wait!” Zayn exclaims. “Louis, stop. This is it. Look at the sign.” Zayn pauses at a hole in the wall. A rather large, rectangular hole, and indeed, there is a sign that reads, “Welcome to Hostel Amigo!”

The sign may say “Hostel Amigo,” but Louis does not accept this.

“I do not accept this.”

The sign hangs above stairs. At least twenty of them, no wider than four or five inches each. The steepest stairs Louis has ever seen. He wonders if these even qualify as stairs. It will require a carabiner and a rope to get to the top. Louis regrets ever skipping his PE class’s weekly excursion to a rock-climbing course when he was in sixth form.

“Oh my god, this can’t be it. It can’t.”

Zayn huffs, making no attempt to hide his annoyance. “It says the name, Louis. Come on. A bed awaits us.”

“Do you see these stairs? This is a mountain. This is Everest! We can’t all have your chiseled physique, Zayn. Not all of us have someone to impress.”

“I don’t have anyone to impress. I work out to stay healthy, you know that.”

“You smoke, Zayn,” Louis says. “Like, a pack a day. You know nothing of health. Don’t act like Aiden hasn’t stroked your biceps in your Art History lecture. I know that’s why you’re so smiley when I pick you up.”

Louis smiles indignantly as Zayn avoids his eye contact. “Whatever,” replies Zayn. "I’ll carry your bag if your fragile, delicate biceps can’t make the journey.”

“My hero!” cries Louis. “Alas, I’m sure I can manage. I am soaked and need a shower like nobody’s business. That is my motivation now. Heave ho!”

Louis finds that if he takes the stairs sideways, he can use his right arm to balance his way up while his left arm lugs his suitcase along. He may have over packed just a tad, but he likes to have options. And they would be gone an entire month. This difficult trek up the stairs will be worth how great he’ll look in anything he brought.

At last they reach the top. The landing is about five feet wide and across, just large enough for the two of them to stands their suitcases up next to one another. There are two doors; one straight ahead is closed and one to the left that leads to a lobby where a man sits at a desk reading a book.

At second glance, Louis discovers that he is asleep. The man's head snaps up when he hears them drop their suitcases, and he looks exhausted. They must be the last people to check in tonight.

While Zayn hardly looks tired, Louis is completely out of breath and is ready to collapse at any moment. Or die, he isn't sure which. “You wait here,” Zayn says. “I’ll check us in and get our keys.”

Louis sits on top of his suitcase and peers into the lobby, where he hears the man at the desk scold them for checking in so late. Zayn’s attempts to blame the rain have no affect on him. The man also does not seem to speak a word of Spanish. Not even a Spanish accent in his voice. Louis knew it. Hostel Amigo is a farce.

Zayn returns with two white keycards that simply have the number "226" in black font printed on one side.

“He said it’s just up the stairs, third door on the right.”

“More stairs?” Louis moans in protest. “The Dutch do torture like no other.”

But in the end they do make it, to a tiny room with a bunk bed, a sink and a mirror. There is a tall, thin boudoir in the corner with nothing more inside but a safe for their important items.

Louis looks out the window and notices the bakery that he saw from the train station.

“We can get breakfast there in the morning, maybe around seven, and then I thought maybe we could catch the tram back to –”

Zayn hasn’t even taken his boots off, but he is fast asleep on the bottom bunk, curled into a little ball and breathing heavily. His wet hair drips onto the pillow beneath his head.

Louis smiles, sends a silent prayer of gratitude for his understanding and equally adventurous best friend, and reaches for his toiletries bag. He quickly brushes his teeth, changes into an old sweatshirt and a pair of boxers, removes Zayn’s shoes for him and climbs into bed.

When they wake up merely three hours later to shouts of, “PUTA MADRE” and “ABRA LA PUERTA, POR FAVOR,” Zayn groans in sleepy protest as Louis smiles and says, “Spanish. I knew it.”

 

***

 

The sunlight peeks through the window before Louis’s alarm even goes off. He checks the time (6:47 AM, so he’s got a little less than an hour to spare before their day of adventure begins, he decides) and sees that he has a few texts from his mum.

11:51 PM: did u get in safe? x  
12:19 AM: louis?? please write when u can x  
12:43 AM: im going to assume u aren’t dead in a ditch. but please write asap x

A feeling of overwhelming guilt comes over him. Louis never forgets to write his mum. He quickly types a response: 'so sorry mum!! everythings fine. had a bit of a rain problem and i think i should probably learn spanish. will call when i can. xx'

Louis peeks down at Zayn and it’s no surprise that he’s still sound asleep. Zayn doesn’t usually get out of bed before noon if it’s up to him (“beauty sleep, Lou”), but Louis knows exactly how to coax him awake. He pulls on a pair of joggers, slips his Vans on, and grabs one of the key cards from out of the safe.

Once he makes it gracefully down the stairs, the bakery he remembered from last night is just unlocking its door and bringing out the plastic chairs and tables for customers to sit outside. He smiles at the old woman setting up and wastes no time walking inside, eager to bring breakfast back for Zayn so they can get moving.

“Do, um, do you speak English?” Louis feels helpless, but the young girl behind the counter smiles widely and responds, “Everyone here does. Can I get you something?”

“Yeah, hmm, I’ll have two chocolate croissants and two coffees, one black and one with cream and sugar.” He could recite Zayn’s favorite meals in no time – his coffee order is no exception. (Louis likes his tea and coffee black – why mess with perfection?)

After the girl bags up the croissants and places the two drinks in a travel tray, Louis hands her a five euro bill, thanks her, and makes towards the door before stopping in his tracks.

More rain.

“Does it ever stop?” He turns back to the girl behind the counter.

She giggles and replies, “Never.”

As Louis briskly makes his way back across the street to the hostel, he contemplates the girl behind the counter. He thinks her nametag might have said Lydia, but to be honest he was more enthralled by the smell of the croissants – she’d warmed them up without him having to ask. Maybe she was flirting with him. Was she? Louis didn’t know. He hadn’t ever tried to figure girls out because he’d known he was only interested in boys since he was about thirteen. Since then it’s been a relatively smooth ride to the present day. It was just a thing most people knew and accepted about him. Sometimes he felt like a walking cliché as a gay theater kid. Other days he was just really glad that he’d only had one or two bad experiences due to his sexuality (a few cyber bullying incidents, nothing too damaging) and had just sort of accepted who he was. He knew sexuality was a rather fluid concept, but then again, he felt he was entitled to making all the decisions about who he was. Some people liked labels, some didn't. Louis just always found it easier this way.

When he arrives back in their room, Zayn has actually not moved. How was it possible to sleep so deeply?

“Zayn. Wake up. Zayn. Hello? I come bearing coffee and croissants.”

No movement.

Louis opens the bag and places it under Zayn’s nose and his reaction is instantaneous.

“Wahhhmmmmmpfffffhhh. Gimme.”

“Relax, you greedy little boy. Sit up properly and you can have it.”

They sit cross-legged on Zayn’s bed, getting croissant flakes everywhere as chocolate melts down their hands.

“What’s on the agenda today? I know you’ve got a plan.” Zayn licks a bit of chocolate off his fingers.

“Of course I have.”

“Alright then, tell me what we’re doing so I can dress accordingly.” Zayn lifts himself off the bed and drinks the last drop of his coffee before bending down over his suitcase to begin picking out his clothes.

“All that really matters is that you wear waterproof shoes, I guess. We’re going to the city!”

Zayn frowns. “The city? On a day like this? Isn’t there something we can do indoors?”

Louis throws the crinkled up croissant bag at him. “Oi, you can handle a bit of rain, mate. You’re English. Now suck it up and get dressed. There are a million things I want to do.”

Louis and Zayn stumble through Amsterdam, feeling quite like tourists. The tram route from the hostel to the city center was relatively easy, but once they found themselves smack in the center, they weren’t quite sure which side street to take. The city was set up like what Louis thought might resemble a sun if he could see it from above – one large, circular center with lots of streets stemming from it.

Luckily the rain stops just long enough for Zayn to light a cigarette. Louis notices two girls staring at Zayn, and he rolls his eyes. He’s used to the fact that his best friend is a genetic miracle, but it never fails to stun him when he sees the actual effects of it take place in real life. With his Wayfarer sunglasses, perfectly gelled quiff, leather jacket and combat boots, Zayn is truly a heartbreaker. Too bad Louis is immune to his bad boy charm. Zayn blows a little puff of smoke out, followed by a long breath that rids his lungs of the rest.

After doing a bit of touristy shopping along the inner city for the better part of the morning (there are loads of tourist shops here – selling everything from crystal tulips to real wooden clogs. Zayn buys a shot glass with a marijuana leaf on it, and Louis picks up four mini pairs of clogs for his sisters and a package of tulip bulbs for his mum), they sit down outside a restaurant and have pizza and a few beers for lunch.

“Alright, Zayner. I say we take this road.” Louis motions to a rather busy street to their right.

“Do you know where it actually leads? Or is this just a guessing game? Because I’m fine with either.”

Louis hums a bit. “I’m not sure. Both, I guess. I just want to find the Red Light District.”

“Louis, it’s 1 in the afternoon,” Zayn argues. “Strippers won’t be out this early.”

“You wound me, darling. I don’t actually want to see a stripper. I just want to see the area.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows.

“Alright, maybe I do want to see a stripper," Louis relents. "But simply for the effect! We’re in Amsterdam!”

“If I’m going to have to see a stripper, I’m going to need to be high for it.”

Finding weed in Amsterdam is, as they expected, easy. Louis had read online before they left that anywhere that had “coffee shop” in the name was sure to sell the little green plant. They stand outside a particularly shady looking shop, passing a bowl between them.

Somehow, in their floating haze, they make it to the Red Light District.

Louis is amazed at how out in the open it really is. There’s plenty of warning as to what they’re about to witness, and the flashing lights and signs only entice Louis and Zayn more. The streets from the city center lead them to a canal, and buildings with large windows line both sides. Louis is sure that there won’t be any strippers out, but suddenly Zayn tugs on his sleeve and whispers, “Look. Over there.”

Zayn points to a building on the corner of the street across the canal. A young woman opens the curtains. Her hair is long and stringy, and she looks like she hasn’t bathed in a week. She’s wearing nothing but a tiny blue bikini and heels that would make Posh Spice cringe. She starts dancing – she’s actually bouncing, more like – and Zayn and Louis both stop dead in their tracks.

“Oh my god, Louis. This is horrible. It’s 1 in the afternoon and this girl is out selling herself. How horrible. Where is the United Nations to stop this travesty?” Louis worries that anyone within earshot would think Zayn is being sarcastic, but he knows how weed makes Zayn super insightful and thoughtful. He can tell by the look on Zayn’s face that he’s actually concerned about this girl.

“Yeah, mate. She looks coked out. She’s just bouncing. She’s not even dancing. Come on, let’s keep walking.”

They continue down the canal, and pass lots of shops full of sex toys and tapes (this calms Zayn down a bit; he finds the blow up dolls hilarious). All Louis can think about is how intensely he feels the breeze on his face. He wonders if the wind has feelings. Can it feel his face? He can’t feel his face.

After passing plenty more strippers in windows, they also pass by a sex museum, a sex theater, and even a candy store with a special theme – you guessed it, sex – Louis and Zayn have walked the entire District and wind up back back in the city center where they started. They sit down on the steps and are silent for a few minutes before Louis breaks the quiet by asking, “Were you thinking about your sisters? Because I was.”

Zayn nods in agreement. “It was horrible.”

“Dunno how that’s a tourist attraction. I’m not sure what we were expecting.”

Louis feels a bit closer to Zayn in that moment. It’s something they’ve always connected on – having little sisters. Even though being the oldest (and usually the one in charge) was hard on both boys, they found solace in knowing that they had each other to bitch and moan about it to. In this situation, however, neither of them wanted to ever picture their beloved sisters doing what those poor girls had to do. Also their high is wearing off. Maybe the weed was a bad idea.

Louis checks his watch – 3:45 PM. “Why don’t we find that giant Amsterdam sign and photobomb people’s pictures?”

They hop back on the tram after conversing with a few locals about the location of the sign. It’s an amazing sight, really – erected in front of a long, manmade pond with lots of people posing for pictures in front of it.

Louis finds that he and Zayn fit easily in the holes of a few of the letters, and they prey on lots of unsuspecting tourists. One Japanese woman even chases Zayn halfway down the pond, attempting to hit him with her straw hat for throwing up a peace sign over her daughter’s head as the photo was being taken.

Their photobombing operation wastes a good two hours of their time. Once they’re quite tired of the game, Louis begs Zayn for their own photo in front of the sign. After handing his iPhone to an American woman to take the photo, he smiles quite widely at the result. Zayn is in the hole of the ‘a’, body dangling upside down, while Louis is on top of the same letter and was caught mid-laugh.

It’s classic Louis and Zayn. He sends it to his mum and signs it “love from amsterdam xx”.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> none of this is real but i wish it was
> 
> also this chapter is a lot longer than this others just felt like it should be longer??
> 
> also also if you like this thanks a million we love you :)

L

Later that evening, after going back to the hostel to eat dinner, shower, and get ready for the night, Louis and Zayn find themselves standing in line for what Louis thinks is the largest club he’s ever seen. It’s called Escape, and Louis certainly hopes that’s exactly what it will be. Both he and Zayn are still reeling a bit from their encounters in the Red Light District.

“Fifteen fucking Euros to get in a club. This better be the best tequila shot I’ve ever taken,” grimaces Zayn as he licks the salt off his hand and pours the gold liquid down his throat.

Yes, this giant club had already sucked fifteen Euros out of their pockets, and had only come with a voucher for two free drinks. Tequila shots were the obvious choice.

The club is actually bigger on the inside than it appeared on the outside, Louis observes, if that’s even possible. There’s a bar made of glass that lines the entire back wall behind them, bright fluorescent lights dancing on the bottles of Grey Goose and various other expensive bottles of alcohol on the shelves.

When they turn around, a massive stage with a DJ and more flashing lights stands along the wall, and hundreds of people covered in sweat and lust move to the thump of the bass. It’s unbelievable and incredible and Louis breathes in the energy, feeling it course through his veins, feeling his heartbeat line up with the beat.

To his left he can see a staircase, lots of people coming down and going up, and he’s curious to see where it goes.

“Wanna explore a bit before we really get lost in that crowd?” Louis whispers in Zayn’s ear, motioning to the staircase.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go.” Zayn claps an arm around Louis’s shoulder and Louis thinks, even if just for a minute, that gleam of life is back in Zayn’s eyes.

Up the stairs they encounter a large room with another small bar and lots of leather chairs and couches dotting the floor. Couples of every shape and size are snogging in them (of course, thinks Louis, what club would be complete without a room for snogging?)

Zayn and Louis flop down on one of the couches, bottles of beer in their hands. They’re not there for even a moment before a blonde girl in a sparkly black dress and heels that could kill someone sits herself down next to Zayn.

“Do you lot speak English?” Her smile is wide, her accent is Australian, and her brown eyes are alight, pupils blown. Louis thinks she’s got something in her bloodstream that probably isn’t blood or alcohol.

“Is that the standard way of saying hello here?” Zayn returns her smile, elbowing Louis in delight as nonchalantly as he can manage. “M’name’s Zayn, this is Louis here, and your name is?”

The girl lets out a wicked laugh and raises an eyebrow. “Whatever you want it to be, babe.”

Louis nearly chokes on his sip of Corona. The nerve.

“Will you be alright if I steal your friend here away for a dance?” she says to Louis, leaning over Zayn’s lap to make sure Louis can hear her.

“Oh, sure, he’ll be fine. You’ll be fine, won’t you, Louis?” Zayn stands up quickly, smoothing the bottom of his shirt and taking the girl by her hand. Louis wants to be annoyed that he’s getting ditched in the first ten minutes of being in the club, but the way Zayn seems so eager to go with this girl, surely to erase any thoughts of Perrie that have come up in the last hour, that he can’t truly be angry.

“Go on then. Curfew’s at two, Zayner!”

“Cheers,” says the girl, and Zayn flashes him a cheeky grin as they disappear down the stairs.

Louis downs his beer and then takes a few shots of whatever’s cheapest at the bar as he gives Zayn and the girl a few minutes to get lost in the sea of people downstairs before he follows their suit, weaving his way into the center of the crowd.

He grinds sweatily with boys and girls alike, taking no particular liking to anyone but finding it an excellent way to pass the time. He’s drunk enough to let his inhibitions go, and more than once he feels a smile on his face as he makes eye contact with Zayn across the crowded room (when he’s not busy exchanging saliva with the Australian girl, that is).

Zayn finds him in a breathless state after the girl (still nameless) has taken off for the loo, and though she’s probably unlikely to return, Zayn is alight in the same way she was, smiling like Louis hasn’t seen him in months.

And Louis pauses, just for a moment, to truly take it all in. He looks up at the ceiling of the giant club and through his drunken haze, the lights look like they’re sparkling. Or maybe they are sparkling. He feels a bit like he’s sparkling too.

His heartbeat is still lined up with the beat of the music, like there’s a force creeping up his legs and into his veins, pumping happiness and bliss through him.

Louis wants to be afraid of the month ahead. He wants to tell himself that nothing good is going to happen, that it’ll be a waste of money, that it will feel like a school trip except without the supervision of an overbearing teacher, but he just can’t seem to do it. Zayn’s smile is infectious as they sway to what is likely the last dance of the night, his arms wrapped around Louis’s neck, and it’s almost like they’re sharing a thought just between them: thank you. I needed this.

They stumble into a taxi, giggling and exchanging small stories from the short hours that they spent apart. Turns out the Australian girl is named Crystal, she ran away from home (Melbourne) with the equivalent of 40 euros in her pocket after she purchased a plane ticket, and has been travelling with the club's DJ from shitty venue to shitty venue for two years.

"She swears he's gonna make it big, that DJ is," Zayn slurs.

"Right," Louis agrees. "Very big. Escape was big. The biggest club I've ever been in."

"And in the biggest club you've ever been in, did you lock eyes with a beautiful stranger?" Zayn playfully punches Louis's shoulder, and Louis reaches up to move his fringe out of his eyes but finds that his hands are heavy as bricks and he ends up just slapping his forehead a bit.

"I never kiss and tell, Zayn."

"Not true. That time you snogged Nick, you wouldn't shut up for weeks."

Normally Louis would retort something fierce, but in his drunken state he can only manage a small laugh. "That's cause he was so pretty."

"You're pretty too, Lou. Don't worry." Zayn's gaze turns soft just as the cab driver brings the car to a start.

The words ring through Louis's mind as he lays down in his bed, the room spinning a bit. "Thanks Zayn," he mutters into the darkness. "You're pretty too."


	5. Chapter 5

H

When they first arrive in Amsterdam, Harry isn’t really sure what to expect. He knows the clichés – weed, strippers, whatever – but he vowed to look beyond the clichés. 

Shit, he thinks, how lame do I sound? Look beyond the clichés, Harold. It’s like Obi-Wan Kenobi took up residence in his brain. He decides then that he wants the clichés. The entire thing, really, is a walking cliché. Three university boys, devoid of any real commitments, hardly any money in their pockets, set off on the European mainland for an entire month. What could he honestly expect besides clichés?

And as it turns out, they cannot escape cliché anyway. 

After one hour of being in the city after a terribly long taxi ride that ends up costing them a combined total of 54 euros, their tiny hotel room has a bunk bed and a single bed and nothing else at all, and this simply will not do for Niall.

“Let’s go do something.” His knees are bouncing up and down and his phone is moving rapidly toward the edge of the bed he’s sitting on, bound to crash to the floor in pieces. As it falls, he catches it without even blinking. “Boys, let’s go.”

Liam frowns. His hands fumble with the edges of the map as he adjusts it from upside down to right-side up. He studies it for a moment, eyebrows furrowing together, then says, “I just – I don’t know where we are. Do you know where we are, Harry?”

“I think… I think we're in Amsterdam.” Harry pulls open the cream curtain that shields their view from outside, and he grins at what he sees. “Is that, or is that not, the city center?”

Liam gives him a gentle shove as he tries to see for himself. “Please be the city. I’m too broke to afford another taxi ride.”

Sure enough, their “hotel,” which they’d accessed from a back street after they handed out their hard-earned 54 euros, was at the top of a very skinny, tall building that had a brilliant view of the city. From all the way up, Harry can see thousands of people roaming the streets on both bicycle and foot, most enjoying the sunshine that he’s heard only shows its face every once in a while. He can see the streets that break off like a wheel with spokes, making way for hundreds of restaurants, shops, and other places to explore. Suddenly it all feels real. It’s half past four in the afternoon, he’s starving, and he wants nothing more than to go. Anywhere. 

Liam neatly refolds the map he’s holding and slides it into his back pocket with a sigh. “What now?”

“I’m so hungry.” Niall falls back onto the bed. “Can we please go?”

Everyone grumbles in agreement, and soon the three boys make their way into the city and end up eating at a McDonald’s, claiming their exhaustion as reason for choosing fast food over Dutch cuisine. 

“What even is Dutch food?” Liam asks as they’re sat in their booth, watching street performers entertain a few people on the street outside.

There are three men surrounded by a well-sized crowd of people, and one of the performers is walking through the crowd with a bucket, collecting tips from the audience. The other two are breakdancing to an old Snoop Dogg tune, and Niall is quite entranced, not even breaking his line of vision as he stuffs fries into his mouth.

“Um. Cheese?” Harry offers, and as he notices the sun setting low in the sky, he feels more at ease now than he has in the last twelve hours. He knows that Liam really wanted to get the “cultural” experience, but so far Liam’s been content to just stroll with Niall and Harry through the streets, avoiding the Red Light District in order to “stay away from tourists” (and truth be told, Harry’s more than glad to stay away). He doesn’t even seem to mind missing out on the Dutch food experience, as he hums in agreement to Harry’s response to his question. Harry checks his watch and is surprised to see that it’s nearly 9 PM. Who knew the sun could still be burning so late?

Suddenly Niall places his fries carefully back on the table and turns his head slowly from the window, as if he’s seen a ghost. “Boys,” he starts. “Do you see that shop down there?”

Out the window to the left is a dingy looking white building that sort of resembles a pub, with a bit of outside seating mostly occupied by people who seem to be about their age. 

“What, the coffee…? No. Niall, no.”

“What?” Harry asks, confused. “What’s wrong with coffee? Other than the fact that it’s, like, 9 PM.”

The sign on the little pub is blinking, as if the light bulbs that illuminate its words are going to burn out any second. It reads, “David’s Coffee Shop,” and Harry cringes at the lack of originality before it hits him, before he realized what “coffee shop” means and what Niall means.

Niall bounds out of the McDonald’s, hands already rummaging for his wallet. Liam hardly even budges. His eyes flit around the room for a moment before meeting Harry’s.

“Should I even try to stop him? Would I be ruining his European adventure?”

Harry chuckles but quickly clears his throat. “No, Liam,” he starts seriously. “You wouldn’t be. But I do think you’d fail to stop him if you tried.”

Liam sighs as he gets up from the table and sets his tray on the top of the bin after dumping the remains of his dinner in. He and Harry walk slowly over to the coffee shop, where Niall is sat chatting animatedly with a very large African man whose smile is the widest Harry thinks he’s ever seen. And he looks at himself in the mirror every morning, so that’s saying something.

Niall’s eyes are already glazed over, and as he passes a joint back to the African man (who Harry isn’t sure speaks English), he looks genuinely at ease in sharp contrast to Liam who looks as if he’s going to jump out of his clothes.

“Fine. Fine, Niall!” Liam shakes his head exasperatedly as Niall nonchalantly blows a puff of smoke out of his mouth. “I won’t stop you. But now you have to share it with me.”

Harry spins his head to face Liam in shock. “You’re going to get high?”

“If I don’t have something to calm me down, I think I’ll have a panic attack.” 

Harry turns his head back and forth between Niall and Liam, watching Niall watch Liam in disbelief. Then Liam takes the joint very gingerly from Niall and raises it to his lips. He coughs a few times, bringing his hand delicately to cover his mouth when he does so. 

“Feel better, mate?” Niall is smirking, of course.

“It’s been five seconds. Give it a minute to kick in,” Liam retorts.

Harry claps his hands together, exclaiming, “Great! Now that everyone’s high, can we go to a club or something?” 

“Harry, you’re not high,” Niall quips with squinted eyes. “Here.”

Niall passes him the joint and Harry sucks it lazily a few times, filling his lungs with smoke. 

“Looks like right porn when you do that, mate.” Liam’s eyes are wide.

“Got a thing for smokers, Liam?” Niall gives his shoulder a soft punch, and Liam rubs the spot tenderly.

“Excuse me, Liam! We’re in public. Save it for the club.” Harry winks at him and Liam smiles, an implication that he is enjoying the banter as well as the weed. 

By the time they have walked in a haphazard direction that leads them to a random club (actually, they just followed the path of a giggling bunch of teenage girls in short dresses and high heels. American tourists, Harry thinks. “Don’t get drool on your shirt, Niall," Liam says as he rolls his eyes. "They won’t let us in then.”) 

The bright lights look like fireworks when they walk through the doors, and Harry is momentarily mesmerized. An excited Niall drags him to the bar, and Harry doesn’t even voice a drink request, just sips slowly on whatever it is that Niall picks for him. Liam does the same, and the three of them stand there for a few moments, chatting with a few Irish girls that Niall’s accent attracted. Birds of a feather, it seems.

It’s not long before Harry is bored with the conversation when he suddenly spots someone in the crowd, someone who looks as if he could be glowing, radiating, in a way that makes it seem like the world revolves around his every movement. His fringe is stuck to his forehead with sweat, and Harry feels the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile when the boy goes to mess with his hair, only making it look more disheveled. 

He’s wearing tight black trousers with a simple white v-neck t-shirt that clings to his body in a way that makes Harry feel like he’s even more intoxicated than he already is. The boy has his arms laced around the neck of another very pretty boy with dark hair and a lot of tattoos, but none of the same glow. They’re smiling at each other, throwing their heads back with laughter as they exchange whispers between them. It doesn’t seem romantic to Harry, but he still feels like he’s intruding on something private. 

The boy turns his head for less than five seconds, not pausing the movement of his hips to the beat, but when he does, his eyes meet Harry’s, and his expression is intense. At the risk of sounding dramatic, Harry won’t let himself use the words “at first sight” or any phrase of the sort, but suddenly he feels a jolt in his chest that makes him feel like his skin is electrocuted, like his fingertips are on fire. He is no longer aware of his surroundings, just this boy and his eyes and their locked gaze and as soon as it happens, it’s over, and the boy is back to smiling at his companion and dancing the night away.

Harry’s skin is buzzing all over as he turns back to Niall, who is already busy with one of the Irish girls, kissing her neck and making her giggle into her tequila sunrise.

Liam appears to his left, as he claps Harry on the shoulder, mouth locked around the neck of a Beck’s Gold. He hands another bottle to Harry. “Feel like getting some air?” 

Harry nods, taking one last look in the boy’s direction, but finds that he’s lost him in the crowd. He shakes his hair out and shouts a few words at Niall about where they’re going but he knows they’re a lost cause anyway.

As soon as they’re outside, Harry takes a big breath in of fresh air and leans his head against the wall, closing his eyes and feeling the faint noise of the music inside beat through him like a pulse.

“This is fun, Harry. Isn’t this fun?” Liam looks so happy, and it’s contagious. Harry breaks into a wide smile, throwing an arm around Liam. 

“First day in," Harry comments, "And it is fun, isn’t it? Feel proper grown up, out here on my own.”

“I needed this so bad. I just felt... suffocated. You know? By my life, and school, and I couldn't breathe..." Liam frowns as he trails off. "Oh no. Don’t let me get philosophical, Harry.” 

Harry takes a swig of his beer, swallows it slowly, and shakes his head. 

“I don’t mind, Liam. Philosophize away.” He isn’t sure if ‘philosophize’ is a real word. He considers typing it in a text message on his phone and seeing if autocorrect fixes it.

“It’s just Danielle. She. I don’t know, she texted me today, and what do you think, Harry, should I respond?” 

Liam suddenly has his phone in Harry’s face, and a long text message with lots of x’s at the end. His vision is a bit too blurred to read the actual words in front of him, but Harry understands suddenly, the pieces clicking together in his head, that Danielle is Liam’s ex-girlfriend. Right. She works at the library on campus, lots of curly hair, never a nametag, so Harry supposes technically it isn’t his fault he didn’t know her name.

“I don’t know, mate,” Harry says. “D'you want to talk to her?”

Liam considers this for a moment, then, “Not really. She broke my heart, you know? And then suddenly, I’m here with you boys, just getting started on our European adventure, and she sends me this. Says she misses me. Misses me! Now she misses me."

Harry is momentarily distracted as he sees the two boys from earlier leaving the club, arms swung around each other’s shoulders. They stumble into a taxi, and the boy doesn’t even give Harry the pleasure of a glance back at him. Maybe it’s the weed, or the alcohol, but Harry feels like he’s just lost something. Like when he misses his train to London, or when the doors of his favorite cafe are closed just when he's about to venture into the depths of an all nighter. Feels like that.

He turns to Liam, considering the opportunity lost. “Don’t respond to her, Liam. Now’s the time for adventure, yeah? She hurt you. Show her you’re better off. Let’s have a great fucking month.”

Liam smiles in response, nodding his head and promptly deleting the text. 

“You’re right, Harry,” he agrees. “I mean, I loved her – love her – but if she loved me as much as she’s saying she does now, she wouldn’t have cheated on me with her professor. Right?”

Harry sucks a breath in as he takes considers this. That’s a lot of information for one night. 

“Right,” Harry says. “Right you are.”

“We should go find Niall before he’s made out with all of the girls in there. Wanker better've saved some for meeeeeeeeeee!” 

Liam’s voice echoes through the street as he walks back into the club, turning the heads of some passerbys and making Harry smile again. 

Even if Liam has shared maybe a bit too much personal information for one night, Harry feels more at ease now that he and Liam have had a chance to talk without Niall. It might take a while to really tear down the boundaries that inevitably come with a new friendship, but Harry figures it won’t be long before the three of them slip into that comfortable place. 

As they quite literally drag Niall out of the club three Jagerbombs, two beers, and four LMFAO songs later, Harry’s thoughts drift back to the boy before. Such a good opportunity it could have been – a heated dance between strangers, maybe a kiss or two, before parting for the night, parting for life. Harry thinks about this lost opportunity as their taxi glides through the city and he watches the streetlights glimmer and dance before him, thinks about how if he ever sees anyone so beautiful again, he’ll go for it. No questions asked.

When he sleeps, he dreams of those eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

“ZAYN! Oh fuck, shit, bugger, Zayn, get up.” 

Jesus Christ. Louis is so angry at himself. Wine always gets the best of him.

“Zayn, wake the fuck up, we’re going to miss our flight if you don’t.”

The rest is a crazy blur of nearly forgetting passports in the safe in their room and trying (and failing) to get through security with two bottles of wine they somehow ended up with in their room last night. The only recollection of the evening besides being at the club that Louis has is returning to the hostel, running into the culprits of last night’s Spanish shouting, and suddenly there was wine being shared and strip poker being played, and everything is fuzzy from that point on. Louis could absolutely smack himself for forgetting to set an alarm – Zayn is useless with those – and it’s pure luck that he woke up at 11, just two and a half hours before their flight was scheduled to take off for Berlin.

He had planned for them to visit the Anne Frank House in the morning, do a bit of historical nonsense just to have some stories that don’t involve alcohol to tell his mum, but clearly that plan went down the toilet (as did the contents of his night’s drinking just after he woke up and discovered the time). 

Exhausted doesn’t even begin to cover their state as they trudge from the train to the second hostel of their journey in Berlin. Fewer people speak English here, but in the lobby of the hostel they run into a large group of students - mostly German, he thinks, but he hears English with an American accent coming from a girl with long curly hair as well as from an Einstein-looking teacher giving them instructions, and decides maybe it’s an international school, or maybe a tour group? But they all look the same age, save the teacher. He has no idea.

After Louis physically drags Zayn away from a gorgeous Brazilian girl (“Fuck you, man,” Zayn whimpers. “Zayn, she’s a high school student. So if I’ve done my math right… that’s illegal.”) and up the stairs to drop their bags off in room, it’s not long before there are beers in their hands and plates of curry in front of them as they sit on the patio of a small restaurant that claims to have the best curry in the city. Louis is less than convinced, but the incredible view of the Brandenburg Gate is enough to keep him satisfied. 

They’re just chatting away, trying to decide what the plan is for tonight (after a nap, of course) when all of a sudden a man sprints past their café, guitar case in hand, followed by a blonde boy shouting a number of inappropriate phrases at the man with the guitar.

Louis and Zayn are both up before they realize where their feet are taking them, their brains making the connection that the guitar is obviously being stolen faster than they can communicate it to each other.

Zayn is fast, faster than Louis and faster than the blonde boy, and he catches up quickly to the man, jumping on his back and knocking him to his knees as the blonde boy approaches them and snatches his guitar from the man.

“Want me to hold him down till you call the cops, mate?” Zayn grunts out, struggling to keep the man’s arms behind his back.

“Nah, nah, let the fucker go, it’s cool,” responds the boy in a brash Irish accent, causing Louis to raise his eyebrows as Zayn lets go and the man darts down the nearest alley. 

“Shit, Niall, what the hell? We left you alone for like, two seconds.”

A voice like honey drawls out those words, and Louis whips his head around to meet the eyes of a tall, lanky boy with possibly the most hair he’s ever seen (and his best friend is Zayn, so that’s saying a lot). Louis is momentarily breathless as they meet eyes for the first time, a smirk curving on this stranger’s face as he digs the toes of one booted foot into the heel of the other, but something about this glance feels so familiar.

Louis has only been in love once. Once, when he was seventeen and innocent and once turned into enough for him. Unrequited love, as Kate Winslet’s character so solemnly stated in Louis’ favorite film The Holiday, is the worst kind of love – the kind that nearly kills its victims. His name was Sam, he had surfer blonde hair with the blue eyes to match, and he told Louis he just “didn’t like him that way” after Louis drunkenly confessed his feelings at a house party when the two of them were sharing a water bottle of Absolut on the roof. But Sam wanted to stay friends, and Louis tried. He did. But it was like getting a snakebite and letting the snake stick around after. So Louis ended up sucking the poison out of his life, little by little, and he decided he’d never chase a boy again who didn’t chase him first. Or at all.  


Time has softened his jaded edges though, and he doesn’t think of himself as so closed off anymore. Truth be told, he just isn’t sure he’s looking for what one would call “summer love”; he doesn’t see the point, really. He’ll end up broken hearted, or someone else will, and why taint a summer with that kind of memory? Louis will pass, thanks.

But when he looks at this boy, this strikingly beautiful boy, and feels his insides turn to candy floss, he presses it down, feels it melt through him, and forbids himself from going any closer. He’s not cocky, and he isn’t just putting this stranger off limits before they’ve even spoken because he’s got the greenest eyes Louis has every seen, or because his hands are so fucking big he could probably hold, like, three ice creams in one of them. 

It’s the teasing glint in his eyes as he scan’s Louis’s body like they’re the only two on the street; it’s the flicker of interest when he smiles the world’s widest smile and the way he seems to already know a secret or two of Louis’s, and Louis doesn’t even know his name. 

“Fuck, man, thank you so much.” Niall, as he is apparently named, reaches out his hand to help Zayn to his feet. “I’m Niall, by the way, and this is Harry – wait, Harry, where’s Liam?”

“Dunno. When I walked out of the shop, I saw you start to run, right? So I started running too, and like, I don’t know what happened to Liam after that.” Harry tells this story using a few hand gestures, despite its length of maybe twenty-five words.

Harry flashes a lazy grin to Louis, and Louis can’t think straight. Or maybe it’s the heat, which brings him to clear his throat (and his mind, which has sunk to the gutter at this point) and ask the others if they’re up for a pint.

“Yeah, definitely,” starts Niall, “but we’ve got to find Liam first.”

And so they do. Liam’s not hard to spot because he’s built as fuck and his t-shirt clings beautifully to what Louis is sure is a perfectly toned stomach. Louis mock-wipes imaginary drool from Zayn’s chin when they’re about a yard away from Liam, and Zayn scowls under his breath but that doesn’t stop him from being first to stick out his hand and introduce himself.

“Hiya, Liam, right? I’m Zayn, and this is –”

“Louis. Pleasure to meet you.” Louis smiles and extends his hand, and he feels right at ease around Liam. He seems happy as he returns their greeting, smiling widely and putting his arm around Niall as the story of the stolen-but-recovered guitar is retold (by Niall and not Harry, thankfully, or Louis thinks they’d be here all day). 

The five of them make their way into a small bar on the corner of the street. The bartender is a soft-faced blonde girl whose nametag says Laura and who offers them the house special even though it’s after 5 and that’s when happy hour ends. She brings a tray of five Long Islands to their table after a few minutes, and Louis is pleasantly surprised at how easy the conversation is between the five of them. 

He’s sat next to Harry at their circular table, and every so often he feels a foot brush against his, and even if it’s only for a few seconds, it sets Louis’s skin alight. When he turns to look at Zayn, who’s on Harry’s other side, he sees Harry’s dimple in his peripheral vision and has to clear his throat a bit before he speaks. 

“So, what are you lot doing in Berlin?” Somehow their conversation hasn’t reached this topic yet, each of them just accepting the chance that two English boys would run into two more English boys (and an Irish boy for a bonus).

“Well,” starts Niall, “it was Liam’s idea, really. Drunk one night after exams, weren’t we, and he just sort of came out with it. ‘Let’s go on a trip,” he said. Was I going to turn that down? No way. And then we latched Harry here on with us, after a bit of prodding, mind you, and so here we are. On to Munich next, tomorrow evening.”

Louis’s eyes widen. “We are as well! Are you taking the train?”

“Yup,” Harry answers, shifting himself so that he’s turned to Louis, facing him like there’s no one else at the table. “The ICE, it’s called, isn’t it, Liam?” Niall asks, and Liam confirms with a nod.

“This is fate at its finest, my friends!” Louis says. “We should stick together, yeah? You up for travelling with us for a bit?”

As Liam, Harry and Niall explain their travel plans, Louis and Zayn are ecstatic to find that they line up perfectly with their plans to visit Cinque Terre and Ibiza as well as Munich. Louis and Zayn agree to ditch Rome, concluding that it probably deserves more than a day to visit, and Liam, Niall and Harry agree to come along to the French Riviera. After that, their plans change, with Louis and Zayn’s flight back to England leaving from Paris while Liam, Niall and Harry’s flight leaves from Barcelona- and so that’s that. 

Louis feels both excited and reckless, replanning their trip so they can travel with perfect strangers. But Niall’s energy is contagious, spreading through all of their veins, and Louis can’t help but smile when Liam tries to settle Niall, tries to make him a little tamer, but smiling in the end when he realizes he just can’t. The friendship between the three boys seems effortless, especially between Niall and Liam, who remind him a bit of himself and Zayn. It makes Louis smile.

And then, of course, there’s Harry – the boy who seems to wear his heart on his sleeve but Louis can’t put a finger on what might make that heart break. He seems light, lighter than anyone Louis has ever met before and though he doesn’t reveal much at first, contributing mostly to the first twenty minutes or so of the conversation in the form of smiles and laughs. 

But somehow Harry makes Louis feel like he can see inside him, like his skin is made of glass and it doesn’t matter whether or not they speak in detail, Harry can still see Louis’s edges and facets. And Louis isn’t used to feeling exposed, certainly not by a stranger he only met hours before, but when it comes to Harry and the small nudges under the table, the side glances and the eyebrow raises, Louis feels like he’s lost a bit of control, lost a bit of his mind over this boy already.


End file.
